Crimson
by LightThemUp
Summary: Winter brought frigid submission, leashed terror, and a methodical line of executions. That winter, Natalia Romanova changed.


Authors Note:

To my faithful readers,

There is not an acceptable excuse for my lengthy absence, but first and foremost I would like to apologize for not updating in 5+ months. I've recently been battling quite a distressing health scare and catching up on missed schoolwork that was a direct result of my absences. I will trying to update more often, but for the next few months, it will most likely be sporadic.

My story "Initial Wave" will not be continued at this moment, although I may choose to revisit it in a few months when I have more time. I have currently started an outline for a connecting series of one shots and short chapter fics regarding Natasha Romanoff and the rest of the Avengers. This fanfiction is the first work of many to follow. I've been chasing around this plot bunny for many months, and I finally mustered the energy to compose it.

Thank you to all my loyal followers who've stuck with me through this ordeal and excessive wait.

Without further ado, may I present _Crimson._

Sincerely,

Mercer

...

It was cold that winter.

Swirls of snow and torrents of pelting ice fell in constant vigilance from the drawn gray sky, the dark clouds pulled tightly across the sun. Not that Natasha minded. She rather liked the bleakness and desolation. In a way, it made her feel more alive and in control, as though she were a queen of ice and destruction in a land of silent turmoil.

For the first time since her childhood, they let her roam that winter. She was free to wander the icy terrain carelessly, with no regard to time restraints and regulations, as long as her face made an appearance at briefings every night. She had a whiff of freedom in those months that made her heart run wild and her lungs long for more.

That was the winter when he approached, subtly and silently at first, and then in a whirlwind of passion and beginnings. It had been short lived, as she had perceived. He a renowned Russian pilot. She a deadly weapon of fifteen. He trained her, she made love to him. They sparred, they fought, they loathed, they experienced passion. Then he was gone, vanished away from her into the darkness of the falling reign of the motherland. Alexi was pronounced dead three weeks after his departure. Natasha was announced pregnant two weeks later. The Red Room forced a miscarriage. She wept as the child was delivered stillborn by a local midwife.

That winter was her snapping point. She had taken the rolls of abuse, the vicious tides of pain. She had lost, loved, and sought individuality. James, Alexi, the short marriage, and her precious, dead baby. She was sixteen, a well-oiled machine that was starting to rust. They sensed her hopes of flight, and they brought upon her downfall.

Each fortnight, trapped in a dingy chamber, arms and legs strapped to a table, blinding pain scorched her memories from her mind. Ideas, social constructs, and a past life would be stuffed back in, manipulated by what the superiors wanted. She became a Russian ballerina, an aid worker in São Paulo, an English tutor to Drakov's daughter. Each resulted in another death and another tick off the KGB's list. She was a leashed monster, poised to strike, released by a single command.

She was twenty-one before it ceased. Twenty-one, with an appearance a half decade younger; an abused machine, infertile, with baggage the size of a continent. He appeared out of thin air, peering down the sight of his bow, tracking her, watching her every move. Tall, strategic, blonde, American. Stereotypical. He caught her outside of the Asset's residence. They fought, she lost, he took her in. She learned a new life, she was re-programmed.

The red would never truly be wiped out, for her ledger was soaked in the crimson liquid, but she could try to reverse the metaphorical clock and repay the debts of those she left to suffer in her tirade. She started anew, slowly, with companionship and camaraderie. The American Archer, Clinton, became an ally, gradually transitioning to a friend. They tracked those who had released harm upon her, and those who sought to do the same to others. The grew to be one unit, Strike Team Delta; unbeatable, fearless, a duo with enough power to shift the world's axis. They loved, they fought, they killed.

In the end, as the world collapsed around them, the screams of their friends echoing in their pulsing eardrums, they stood together, back to back, weapons drawn, as they charged into the falling light of Earth.


End file.
